The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  In spite of my lack of interest, Cromwell had all the while been casting about in Europe for a bride for me. I had let him, for it amused him, and I wished to humour him. In the past year there had been several delicate queries made to Denmark (I have already spoken of the flippant Duchess Christina); to France (there were the three daughters of the Duc de Guise: Marie, Louise, and Renée; two cousins of Francis, Marie de Vendôme and Anne of Lorraine; as well as his own sister), and to Portugal (the Infanta).

  None of these was seriously made—at least not on my part; although certainly on Cromwell’s—or seriously received. Cromwell’s diligence provided Hans Holbein with steady employment and lengthy travels and visits to the courts of Europe, but that was all. I had no desire—indeed, I had a revulsion—against the thought of remarrying. Now, in my personal inventory, I was forced to admit that I was no longer a very compelling object for a woman’s desires.

  The very fact that I thought of it, grew concerned about it, was a signal that something was beginning to change, to stir. . . .

  In the meantime I guarded little Edward’s health, obsessively. He was not to be at court, because of the danger of infection, but kept at Havering—a clean manor in the country. His attendants were to be strictly limited in number, and all his linens, hangings, toys, and feeding utensils were to be washed and aired daily. As a result of all this seclusion I myself seldom saw him, but I rested secure in the knowledge that he was safe, and flourished. They said he had inherited Jane’s starry eyes. Yes, my Jane’s eyes had been like the sapphires from India. My Jane . . .

  The line of granite-faced castles was rising steadily on the coasts, like a row of mushrooms after a rain, and just in time. Francis and Charles were growing daily more belligerent toward me, and the Pope was urging them on, like a huntsman to his hounds.

  In the early spring of 1539 I rode to Sandgate, near Dover, to inspect my fortifications there. The sea-air was raw and yet restoring, and I felt the first surge of excitement I had felt in a year and a half when I saw the half-completed ramparts of Kentish ragstone surrounding the massive, tripartite fortress in their center. The crenellations on top of the semicircular bastions made them look like three gigantic wheels with interlocking cogs. There were no corners on the castle or its surrounding curtain wall, for corners were vulnerable to cannon-shot.

  That for the pretensions of Francis and Charles. They would never prevail against my kingdom, not while I was alive to defend it. I would raise defence after defence, even if I had to beggar myself and the whole of England to do so. As long as there remained a farthing, that farthing would be spent to protect ourselves against our enemies.

  Cromwell was walking atop the parapets, with his rolling, bearlike gait. He had become more blocklike of late (unlike Wolsey, whose extra dimensions had transformed him into a sphere). Against the grey sky, Crum was a solid, deeper grey. He waved when he saw me staring up at him.

  I was not concerned with Crum, however, but only with the French. Walking round to the farthest protruding rampart, where the cannon would eventually be lined up, I stood on the very edge of the sea-wall, where the cold Channel waters came and made obeisance to England, in little tame waves. Across that water lay France, visible on clear days, but not today.

  The water made the soothing slap-and-slide sounds meant to allay my fears. It was hypnotic, and seemed to say, It is good, it is good, it is good. . . . False waters. French-tainted waters.

  I turned and looked behind me, at the round belligerence of my defence castle, so muted and grey against the equally dull greenish grey grass on the knolls surrounding it. War had the characteristics of an elephant: grey and wrinkled and bulky. Also expensive to feed and house.

  Cromwell was no longer visible. He had left the high places and was undoubtedly inspecting the heart of the castle, where men and ammunition must quarter. If there were a weak spot there, he would find it and seek to have it corrected.

  I continued to watch the cold, grey-green sea spread out before me. Watching the sea, I did not have to think; and I was weary of thinking. All my thoughts were unpleasant.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Cromwell was beside me. “Ah, Crum.”

  “The underground provisions are marvellous!” he reported. “Although under the earth, the whitewash and simple designs and open chambers make them aesthetic and even restful. And the decision to have only large chambers is not only practical, but avoids that ugly, cramped feeling of being confined. Von Haschenperg is a genius!”

  Even though Crum was no military tactician, he understood the needs of ordinary soldiers—had he himself not served as a mercenary in Italy?—and thus his comments were valuable.

  “I am pleased you find it so.”

  Together we stood and looked toward France. I knew our conversation must tread on this delicate matter. But I was not eager for it.

  “My negotiations with the French for your bride have foundered,” he finally said, hands clasped behind his back, still staring out to sea.

  “How so?” I likewise kept my eyes firmly fastened on invisible France.

  “The three daughters of the Duc de Guise have proved . . . difficult,” he said. “The first, Marie—”

  The widow of the Duc de Longueville, I suddenly remembered. The silly old Duke, held captive in England, who had acted as Louis’s proxy in “consummating” his marriage to Mary . . . was his widow yet alive?

  “She is young, and although large in person, is thought to be attractive,” said Crum, answering my unasked question.

  Large. I myself was “large.” “Well, as I am large myself—” I began.

  “It seems she is betrothed to the King of Scots already,” said Cromwell.

  James V, son of my sister Margaret. How old could he be, as James IV was killed in the Battle of Flodden in 1513. . . . Twenty-seven, then? Damn the Scots! I had heard little from them in a generation, had mistook their quietness for subservience.

  “But her sisters, Louise and Renée, are said to be beautiful. I have sent Holbein to take their likenesses. Unfortunately, Renée, the most beautiful of the three, is said to be religious and determined to enter a convent.”

  Good. Then I would be spared the de Guise sisters.

  “Francis has two cousins, Marie of Vendôme and Anne of Lorraine, which he himself suggested for Your Majesty’s consideration. Holbein has agreed to sketch Anne of Lorraine as well, while he is in France doing the de Guise sisters.”

  This was ludicrous. “What of their looks, these Valois cousins? Perhaps we could have them all transported to Calais, and there let Lieutenant Lisle evaluate the entire French contingent?”

  “Alas, no reliable report.” He spread his hands wide. “And as for the Infanta of Portugal, Charles would of necessity be involved.”

  “All this marriage-mongering, and for what?” Suddenly it was no longer a harmless pastime, but something significant and demeaning. Others were becoming involved.

  “For perhaps another heir,” said Cromwell. “God be praised that you have a son, a fine, healthy Prince,” he added hastily. “But as a wise and prudent sovereign, it were better that you provide other sons for the succession—for Edward’s sake as well as your own peace of mind. It is difficult to bear the burden of being an only son. And God has proved Himself inscrutable and often cruel.”

  None knew that better than I: both beneficiary and mourner from the largesse of His “unsearchable ways.”

  I grunted in response. More princes were all very well to wish, but they must be got upon a woman. Therein lay much happenstance and misery.

  “My true opinion,” spoke Cromwell near my ear, “is that the Empire and France are no good casting-grounds for you. Charles and Francis are your enemies, and it is in their interest to keep you celibate and unwed, while dangling unattainable brides before you. No, Your Grace. You must outsmart them and seek among your true allies—just as Abraham would not seek among the Canaanites for Isaac’s bride.”

  Wher
e had he come upon all this Old Testament knowledge? Only scholars knew it—and heretics.

  “The Duke of Cleves, a non-Papal Catholic like yourself, has two daughters. They are said to be fair. Perhaps we should enquire there.”

  “Where is Cleves?” It must be an unimportant little duchy.

  “Small, Your Grace, but strategic. It is located at the upper end of the Rhine, where that great river spreads out into fingers on the flat plains that finally turn into the Low Countries. It is a troublesome thorn in the Emperor’s side,” he noted with glee. “The old Duke has just nipped in and taken the Duchy of Guelders right from under Charles’s nose. He is quite feisty and independent. And his daughters may be beautiful.”

  Beautiful. A Rhine maiden, a Lorelei? I confess that my imagination was stirred. It would be so different, with no cruel reminders of the past. Perhaps I was ready for a complete change. If there existed a woman capable of making me forget the Spanish Katherine, the Frenchified Anne, the pure English Jane . . .

  “Well,” I temporized, “make some inquiries. And if Holbein is free later, perhaps he can take their likenesses.”

  Cromwell nodded, slowly.

  “And ask our ambassadors to the nearby Lowlands to visit their court,” I added, “and describe the daughters of Cleves to us.”

  The daughters of Cleves . . . it had an ancient, poetical ring to it.

  The reports were conflicting.

  Christopher Mount, who was employed to negotiate a possible treaty of alliance with the Duke of Cleves, wrote to Cromwell, who paraphrased his letter to me:

  The said Christopher instantly sueth every day, that the picture may be sent. Whereunto the Duke answered, that he should find some occasion to send it, but that his painter, Lucas, was left sick behind him at home. Every man praiseth the beauty of the said lady, as well for her face as for her person, above other ladies excellent. One among others said to them of late, that she as far excelleth the Duchess of Saxony, as the golden sun excelleth the silver moon. Every man praiseth the good virtues and honesty with shamefacedness, which plainly appeareth in the serenity of her countenance.

  Another envoy, Hutton, wrote, “The Duke of Cleves has a daughter, but there is no great praise either of her personage or of her beauty.”

  Then Holbein’s sketch arrived, showing a beautiful and alluring woman, modest like Jane, but bedecked like a Babylonian princess.

  My primary commissioner for the marriage, Nicholas Wotton, did not send back any reports from the court of Cleves.

  In the meantime, the situation worsened between England and the Catholic powers. Francis and Charles withdrew their ambassadors from court, and there were reports that a French fleet was being assembled at Boulogne, and that Francis was commissioning seven new warships to be built, to attack our shores. The old Duke of Cleves died and was succeeded by his son, who was as anti-Imperialist as his father—a relief for us. He was most interested in allying himself to England, and was in contact with the Schmalkaldic League, an anti-Papal/Imperialist union of northern German states.

  Cromwell, who had lived and worked in the Low Countries as a young man (as clerk to an English merchant adventurer), kept assuring me that honour did not reside only in the ancient kingdoms of Hispania, Gallia, and the Papacy, but in the northern duchies and principalities as well.

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said. “In the future, I believe, England will find her natural allies from amongst these peoples. Indeed, if France and Spain persist in their outmoded allegiance to the Papacy, new-minded monarchs will have no choice. Is it not better to embrace the future wholeheartedly? Not, like Lot’s wife, to keep looking back?”

  Again, the Old Testament. And so many Biblical allusions from my “modern” Crum . . .

  “To look back avails us nothing,” I agreed. The world of Wolsey was gone, and all his assumptions, alliances, and loyalties with it. “Do prod Wotton. I shall not decide until after I have received his report.”

  LXXXIV

  In August, Cromwell reported that he had received word from Nicholas Wotton regarding the Princess Anne, and that it was “favourable.”

  “What, precisely, did he say?” I pressed him.

  That she is intelligent and loyal, and inclined to the match,” Cromwell said.

  “And she is beautiful,” I added. Holbein’s portrait assured me of that. Intelligent—I needed that. And loyal—no less important.

  “Indeed she is!”

  “And not too Protestant? I’ll not have a Lutheran!”

  “No, her house thinks as you do. A rare thing in these troubled times, to have recognized the twin dangers of Papacy and heresy.”

  “Is her brother content to have her marry away from the Continent?”

  “He is content, and ready to sign a marriage treaty.”

  So here it was. I must marry again. Despite all my restrictions, both political and personal, it seemed a bride had been found to meet them. And beyond that, to provide a bit of exotica . . . a Rhine Princess, whose device was two white swans, emblems of candour and innocence. There was a family legend in Cleves that a faerie swan, drawn in a boat down the Rhine by two white swans, had mysteriously “visited” a Duke of Cleves’s daughter long ago, and fathered her child. From him descended my Swan-Princess. . . .

  “Then send William Petre to join Wotton and have the treaty drawn up, signed, and witnessed,” I finally said.

  Cromwell beamed.

  Three weeks later he appeared, seeking audience with me. Clutched in his hand was the dispatch from the Duchy of Cleves. Wordlessly he handed it to me, and I broke the seal and read its contents.

  Then I handed it back to Cromwell and left him to read it carefully with his lawyer’s eye, while I stood at the far end of the chamber and looked out at the dismal little garden below, misted and dying in the autumn rains. My mind wandered, seeking to hide in the dead stalks and fallen leaves.

  “So it is to be done?”

  “Eh?”

  “I said”—Crum thought he disguised the little rise of irritation in his voice—“so it is to be done? All seems to be in order here. Shall I notify the Duke of your decision?”

  “Aye. The Duke of Cleves will become my brother.” A German brother? The Germans . . . their nature was so alien to me. Their food . . . their great, ponderous legs and haunches . . . even their names: Wolf, Gisella, Ursula. And their leaden ways, so contrary to the English merriment. (But my Anne would not be so; she was different.)

  Yes, Anne was like Jane, I could tell by the portrait. I approved of her gown of gold, all studded with gems and elaborately embroidered. Her taste was the same as mine. How well we would look together in public! She appeared dainty and would avoid the domineering blockishness of Katherine and the brazen wildness of Anne. Sweet, like my Jane, with her downcast eyes . . .

  At the thought of Jane, the familiar ache, which never entirely left me, came. This mourning seemed to have a life of its own, and had now lived with me longer than Jane herself. I knew I must end it, that it was time. But . . .

  The court was delighted that it would once more have a Queen. A court without a feminine half tends to become either dull and entirely businesslike or violent and immoral, depending on the age of its bachelor-King. It was an indication of which stage I was in that the past two years at court had been colourless and boring. Men’s concerns were centered on property, religious politics, and foreign trade: middle-aged men’s passions.

  The realm, too, rejoiced that after so many years it would have a Queen. Having never accepted Anne, and having not been allowed enough time to become accustomed to my beloved Jane, in their minds the people had not had a true Queen since the first rumblings of the Great Matter, in 1527. Over twelve years they had been patiently waiting. Now I would bring them a Princess from across the waters, a dainty, sheltered girl. Anne would become known as “the Silver Swan of Cleves.” Even the words had a silken, gliding sound.

  So, in November, with the marriage contra
ct signed and witnessed in Cleves, and the Lady Anne promised to depart for England straightway, I announced the good news by proclamation to all England: You are to have a Queen! And they roared back: Hurrah!

  Because of the lateness of the year and Anne’s delicate complexion, it had been decided that she should travel mainly over land rather than risk a nasty sea voyage. So she and her entourage of ladies were creeping slowly across the face of northern Germany and thence to Calais, where they would cross the Channel in time to spend Christmas in England.

  Now that the thing was decided, I was anxious to have the adventure begin. I was suddenly hungry to know every detail about her person, so that I might imagine her and spend time with her in my mind ere I beheld her.

  As soon as Nicholas Wotton returned to court, I ordered him to my side and began to ply him with questions. I began with political ones, concerning the new Duke’s relationship with the Vatican.

  “After all, it affected the one sister’s marriage to the Duke of Saxony and raised questions about Anne’s possible pre-contract with the Duke of Lorraine,” I said.

  “Aye, aye.” He smiled, his grey wisps of hair making his head look like a dandelion puff-ball. “But she married anyway, although I understand she still must never let her husband see her read a Lutheran text.”

  “I blame him not! I would never permit a wife of mine to keep heretical tracts! I suppose the Lady Anne spends time with the Scriptures?” I asked idly.

  “No. Very little, from what I saw.”

  “She prefers frivolous works?” Could she have a leaning for love-poems?

  He shrugged. “I never heard of it. The Germans do not believe women should study or read overmuch. They think it makes them unfeminine.”